by Darrell King
“Sit your skinny ass down Fishbone and stop acting stupid before the ‘man’ comes around and see you!” Pee Wee hollered at him, but Fishbone was way too fucked up to have obeyed anyone. Pee Wee went over to Fishbone and hit him in the jaw, but he just laughed and kept on jumping up and down, even with the bloody mouth. Pee Wee then tried to wrestle Fishbone to the ground, but even as thin as he was, the effects of the PCP made him as strong as an ox and even Pee Wee couldn’t overpower him. By this time the damned fool managed to strip butt naked and was making a total spectacle of himself. Pee Wee, Day Day and Black David were finally able to restrain him. They threw him in the back of Pee Wee’s car until he came down off his high.
Later during the day we met up again and fought a rival gang that tried to muscle their way into our drug turf. It was mainly a street fight involving weapons such as knives and knuckledusters. There was just fifteen of us that day and at least twenty-five to thirty of the rival gang known as the Blood brothers. The Blood brothers was a gang from the early days that later developed into one of the many divisions of the Bloods.
They outnumbered us two to one, and because of that many of our homies got fucked up real bad in that fight. That was until PeeWee popped open the trunk of his Bug and came out with a twenty-two rifle. Before they knew what was happening, there were several blasts and about four Bloodbrothers fell wounded, while innocent bystanders yelled and screamed as they fled for their lives. Pee Wee kept on busting and complete chaos now reigned supreme in the streets. By the time the LAPD rolled up, one person was dead and nine others were wounded. The cops arrested seven gang members. Luckily, Paco and I escaped serious injury and arrest. I had a black eye and a nasty knife wound on my left side, which I still have a scar to this day. Paco sustained several superficial flesh wounds, but nothing major.
After that gang fight, I decided that gang banging was not for me. So I limited my associations with gangbangers to selling drugs with them and hanging out, though gang life was abandoned by me temporarily. Paco of course loved being a banger. This was his lifestyle and there was nothing he enjoyed better than hanging with the homies.
During that year, Mama had become pregnant with you and stayed home for a few months until you were born. While she was home on maternity leave she watched us like a hawk; we didn’t get to hang out as much as before. Finally, on December 10, 1974, you were born. The following year on March 18, 1975, Mama became Mrs. Lydia Matthews.
The happiness of marriage and the new baby was short-lived for Mama and Dad. Dad was caught in the crossfire of two rival gangs on March 10, 1976. He received bullet wounds to the head, neck, and chest areas. He died in route to the hospital. The days following Dad’s death were very nightmarish. The cops seemed to be the salt on a very painful wound.
They were cold and insensitive while they questioned Mama during her time of grief. The funeral was held on a somber, rainy afternoon. There were lots of family and friends that came to pay their respects to Dad. Throughout the service the choir sang sorrowfilled gospel songs that added to the melancholy of the internment.
Paco and I both made an oath that as long as either of us lived,we’d avenge our Dad’s death. Paco and I was comin’ from our uncle’s house one Saturday night and we were both high off dust; we had smoked a joint after we left Junebug’s place because we knew Junebug would never allow us to smoke PCP around him. While we were walking up the street laughing and playing the dozens with each other, out of the darkness cold steel barrels were pressed against our ribs and powerful hands covered our mouths. We were then pulled roughly into a nearby alleyway.
From where we were, we could see the dim glow of Junebug’s porch lights. It cast a dull glare into the outer reaches of the back street in which our abductors were vaguely visible. “Give up some fuckin’ bread, homey!” said the closest punk, sticking a thirty-eight in my grill. Just then I recognized the duo as Slick Lee and Fishbone. The two relaxed their menacing positions and looked at me and Paco in consternation.
“What set you from?” asked Fishbone curiously with a little apprehension, still not realizing who we were.
“It’s Snake and his little brother DiAngelo,” screamed Paco, snatching his arm free from Fishbone’s grasp. “What the fuck’s up with you niggas!” yelled Paco angrily.
“We thought you were the Bloodbrothers,” said Slick Lee, now lowering his piece.
“How the fuck could you think that?” Paco returned.
“Because both you niggas got on red jackets.” It was true, we both had on New Jersey Devils hockey jackets that Mama had bought us for Christmas. Again we learned something entirely new about the mean streets of South Central Los Angeles. We all hopped in Slick Lee’s powder blue Dodge Charger and burned rubber away from the alley down the main street.
After driving about ten or twelve blocks we stopped at our gang’s hideout or headquarters, as Skippy called it. Our hangout was actually a row of old tenant buildings that had been burned out during the ’68 Watts riots. The buildings were a little more than blackened charred ruins with extensive gang affiliated graffiti markings on the outside walls. The walls gave testimony to the new occupants of the territory.
We climbed the five flights of stairs up to what was once the management office, but now served as Reaper headquarters. The room was lit by a single window near the doorway while a dirty rug was spread out on the floor. There were already eight members in the room; me, Paco, and the other two made twelve. The room was foggy with reefer smoke and I caught an immediate buzz from it. Skippy was seated on a raggedy old love seat with a light complexioned female who continually fondled his crotch and caressed his cheek and neck. A tall, long-legged deep chocolate babe sat Indian style in front of the couch between Skippy’s legs puffing on a blunt.
“What up Gods?” asked Skippy, gesturing the gang signs with his hands. We all returned greetings and gangs signs then seated ourselves on the rug. Skippy snapped his fingers and pointed to the lightskinned chick with the large breasts. She got up immediately and sashayed across the room to the back. She returned with two bottles of forty-ounce malt liquors and placed them before Fishbone and Slick Lee. She then made a trip to the back again and returned with two bumpers of old gold. These she presented to Paco and myself.
There was much drinking and reefer smoking, since every gangbanger was a pothead. As the day wore on into evening, Slick Lee went out and later returned with some fast food. Everybody that wasn’t either fuckin’ someone, or doubled over in some dark corner getting sick from drinking so much, gorged themselves on the cheap greasy victuals.
Later that night, Paco, Fishbone and Slick were all arrested. They had robbed a local convenience store at gunpoint and would’ve made a good getaway had it not been for the Korean storekeeper who tried to prevent their escape. He grabbed Paco, who ended up stabbing the old man several times, causing his death.
The charges that Paco and his accomplices faced were very severe; they faced armed robbery and homicide. This would make the second time Paco had gotten himself locked up; the first time had been in New York. This time however, he was not facing a misdemeanor, he was facing robbery as well as murder. This experience was anything but pleasant for Mama, who had just recently lost her husband to the gangs of Los Angeles and now her oldest child had become one of them. Paco was again taken from us and locked up in L.A. County jail; when I saw him again it was 1977.
*****
With Dad dead and Paco behind bars, Mama went back to work in order to take care of you and me. She had to get a second job to help pay rent and take care of other living expenses. Uncle Henry helped us out as best as he could. He often babysat you and me when Mama wanted to go out and enjoy what little free time she had to herself. As for me, I was bored at home most of the time. Mama was so determined that I wouldn’t turn out like Paco that she watched me like a hawk. But I found ways to get away from her and hang with the fellas. I spent as much time as I could hanging out with Skippy and the rest of th
e Reapers. That’s when I entered my cocaine era.
THE BLOODS
The year was 1976, and I was now twelve years old. There was this bitch named Micha that I used to fuck with. She was fifteen and her mom used to snort all the time.
“You should try some nose candy baby,” she used to say. “This shit ain’t no joke.” Then she would spread the powdery narcotic on the glass table top in her living room and slowly divide the coke into lines with a razorblade. She snorted her stuff with a little old coke spoon, all neat and ladylike. I in turn would snort my ‘caine with a dollar bill or a soda straw. I never knew a drug quite like cocaine. The shit was paradise and hell all rolled into one.
When you were high on the shit it was the greatest ecstasy, but when you came down you crash landed. Once you started, it took a hell of an effort and lots of willpower to quit. Micha, who was the girlfriend of a Reaper named Pretty T, was one fine bitch. She had these big, soft brown doe eyes, long pretty raven black hair and a body that was booming. Micha was hooked on two things: ‘caine and sex, and was insatiable when it came to either one. There were times when she would incorporate the ‘caine when she performed oral sex on me. I really didn’t understand her reason for doing that but when you’re getting yourself a good blow job, you don’t tend to ask a bitch why’d she put ‘caine on your dick. You would just sit back and enjoy.
While I was a member of the Reapers gang, I was very popular and well liked. My quick fists gave me the respect and admiration needed to run with a gang as vicious as the Reapers. I was liked by all except Pretty T. He wasn’t much older than me, although he was a little taller and somewhat on the chunky side. I guess they called him Pretty because he had nice wavy hair and dimples. Pretty T never liked me or Paco, but he never fucked with either of us because he was afraid of Paco. But once Paco was in jail, he felt free to try and chump me up.
He held a vendetta against me because he felt that I stole his girl from him. He also claimed I turned her into a coke addict. One night, while the younger gangbangers sat around drinking and talking shit,
Pretty T mentioned that a member had gotten smoked by the Bloods in Compton.
“Who was it?” asked Pretty T’s little brother DayDay.
“It was Tink and little Mo, ‘cept little Mo hauled ass and got away. But Tink got shot ta shit by dem niggas’,” T added with anger. “But now, it’s time ta peel a nigga’s cap.” All the young hoodlums agreed with excitement and anticipation at the very thought of gunplay. As I joined in the building frenzy of the moment. Pretty T glowered at me and said with drunken rage, “What the fuck is you getting’ all happy for! You ain’t going on a driveby wit us. You ain’t from da ‘hood, hell you ain’t even from L.A. You a damn New Yorker and you sure as hell don’t belong here. Why don’t you go back to New York, you high yella bastard!”
“Leave him alone T,” said a young baby-faced thug Nate, “DiAngelo’s cool people with us.”
“Shut the fuck up!” Pretty T roared at Nate, “he ain’t nuthin’ but a red New York bitch.”
Suddenly, I felt my patience give way to fury, my face was flushed red with anger. I could’ve shot that butterball dead where he stood. But instead I retaliated verbally.
“You know what,” I said, getting up in Pretty T’s face, “I’ve just about had enough of your mouth, fat boy. I can’t believe I told Paco not to pound your fat ass before he got locked up. He never liked you… and now come to think of it, I don’t like your fat ass either. And if you say one more word about me, I’m gonna cold bust you right in your muthafuckin’ bitch-ass face.”
I had barely finished my sentence when the fat fuck delivered a strong right to my jaw that staggered me momentarily. He then tried to swing on me a second time, but I was telegraphing his punches so it breezed over my head harmlessly as I feigned his blow. Then taking advantage of his defenseless status, I maliciously attacked his ribs and pudgy midsection. When he buckled over in pain I grasped him by the back of his head and slammed his face into my upcoming knee.
Pretty T wasn’t very pretty anymore as he lay groaning in agony on the sidewalk and nursing his blood-soaked face. Everyone stood around looking first at me and then at the humbled prostrate form of Pretty T. None could believe that I had bested that bully so swiftly and efficiently. I could hear the hoochies around me giggling, pointing, and peeking at me because they had witnessed me whip Pretty T’s ass. Some even came over to hug and kiss me. Everybody was on my jock after that. Skippy even started treating me like a son instead of a gang subordinate. As for Pretty T, he became as deadly to me as any gangbanger or cop.
Two weeks after that incident, we conducted what is now called a drive by on a small group of Bloods as they stood hustling on the avenue. Drive by’s were mostly carried out by larger black and Chicano gangs of both South Central and East Los Angeles counties. Anyway, Day-Day, Ron, Foots and myself all piled into a sleek read and white Chevy Nova and pulled out around twelve thirty or one o’clock in the morning. Day-Day brought some Acapulco gold reefer and some Columbian coke. We laced our blunts with the powder and got extra crazy zooted, so much so that we were ready to take on an army if need be. Each of us took the boxes of bullets we had and loaded up the clips that were to be fitted into the five M16 assault rifles we each carried for our evil undertaking.
Smiles of devilish delight appeared on every face as each member slammed the heavy magazines into their rifles with which resounded in loud clicks. We then got dressed in dark blue sweat suits and covered our faces with bandannas of a similar color. Day-Day and myself got in the backseat and since neither of us were that large, “Foots” managed to squeeze inside the back too. Pretty T got up front with Ron who drove. We took off and when we came in sight of our enemies we turned off the headlights and Ron put the Nova in neutral.
There were six Bloods out there selling dope along with a couple of buyers. We glided down the street across from the niggas in red. When we were about fifteen to twenty feet from them Pretty T stuck his head out the window and shouted “Yo! What’s up
Blood?!!”
When the nearest Blood turned in our direction his chest was peppered with bullets and the M-16s repeated rat-a-tat-tats made its terrible presence known to all on the avenue. The Blood fell backward into the streets. His lifeblood trickling from dozens of bullet wounds in the chest. His mouth frozen in a scream silenced by death. By now, the Avenue was alive with activity and sound, as drug dealers and buyers alike ran for cover.
“Yeah muthafuckaaaaas!” yelled Pretty T, as he quickly sprayed two other fleeing Bloods and sent both crashing to the pavement as bloodied, mangled remains. We all had the bloodlust at this point and being all high, we shot at any and everything moving. We didn’t give a flying fuck if they were Bloods or not. Pretty T, myself and Day-Day asked Ron to park the car. He pulled into an alley or near one; I cannot remember which but, in any case, we all sprayed the sidewalk smoking about ten or twelve people while doing so. The sidewalk and street was strewn with the bodies of the dead and wounded.
I was standing motionless for what seemed like an eternity. Just staring at the gory, hellish scene around me. There were bullet-riddled corpses all over, some were women and little children, old people and others whose only fault was that they happened to live in a gang-infested drug zone. As I started coming down off my high, I began to regret the uncalled for violence I had just aided in unleashing on these innocent people… black people… my people.
I could understand smoking a Blood but to kill randomly women and children… it was unspeakable. I dropped the M-16 to the ground as I stood watching amazed at the heartless revelry the other Reapers took in robbing the dead and wounded of their valuables. Then like crimson death, two Bloods emerged from around the corner of the opposite end of the street. Before I could warn anyone, one of the Bloods revealed what resembled a small uzi pistol and almost simultaneously his homie did the same.
I dropped to the pavement as the two gunmen opened fire on m
y boys. I reached out blindly and with luck clutched my weapon I had dropped earlier. I then half ran, half crawled toward our Nova and leaped over and behind the hood. What I saw appalled me even more. Ron was lying in a pool of blood, his head shattered, revealing its slimy brain matter.
Foots was lying face down bloodied from numerous bullet wounds but still alive. That is until one of the Bloods came over and placed the point of his uzi at the base of Foots’ skull. He pulled the trigger and it seemed as though Foots’ entire head erupted, sending blood, brain and bone shards everywhere. The two gangbangers laughed wickedly, then turned just in time to see Day-Day who was shot in the leg pointing an M16 at them menacingly. He wrinkled his brow in anger, and pain, and blurted, “Y’all motherfuckas are through bookin’.”
He then tried to stand, but the pain in his leg must’ve been too great. As he fell back down he squeezed the trigger and the rifle sprayed a few shots but they went high and wide. The two Bloods had dove for cover when it looked like Day-Day would rise. But when they saw that he was back on the ground groaning in agony from the bullet wound in his leg they rushed in on him and beat him severely before finally putting him to death.
I could take no more. I threw away the empty clip and searched frantically for another. There was one on the floor of the backseat. I opened the door and snatched it up quickly. I was pissed off at this point so I fumbled with the clip and the bullets I carried in my sweatpants. But I got it together quickly, loaded the clip and shoved it in my rifle. When I peered over the top of the hood I could see three people locked in combat. It was Pretty T and the two Bloods. Pretty T was fighting bravely, but the two Bloods soon got the better of him. Once they tripped him up and he lay helpless before them, one of the thugs slapped him across the face with the side of his uzi pistol, knocking him senseless to the ground.